


A Bahorel Christmas Interlude

by Akallabeth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, M/M, but mostly Christmas shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28285212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akallabeth/pseuds/Akallabeth
Summary: Bahorel celebrating Christmas Eve in his own particular idiom.
Relationships: Bahorel/Feuilly (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	A Bahorel Christmas Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Zala, for the 2019 Les Mis Secret Santa (previously posted on tumblr).
> 
> Rated G. Contains off-screen kissing, and on-screen minor property crime.

It had, in retrospect, proved quite easy to convince Jean Prouvaire to help. Bahorel certainly hadn’t finished asking by the time his friend agreed, though he would be at a loss to say whether this occurred after the word “old” or “pagan"--–it was certainly before "tradition” as, by that point, Prouvaire had taken him by the hand and the pair were tumbling out of the Musain in search of holly and mistletoe.

(Louisson would put the unfinished breakfast on Bahorel’s tab. Knowing them both, she had probably done so before even serving it.)

This enthusiasm was rather to be expected when enlisting Provaire’s help with a scheme. When not shying away from company or bewailing the world’s woes, Prouvaire tended to throw himself into new endeavors wholeheartedly–much like Bahorel himself, truth be told. And, as these two young men (even more so than many in their eclectic circle of friends) subscribed to the school of Romanticism, it would not do to purchase their festive accoutrements.

No, such botanical trophies must be gathered with one’s own hands from the earth and/or host-tree, even as the ancients had done.

Fortunately, one of Prouvaire’s other talents was conjuring Combeferre, noted expert on plant-life (and most other topics), seemingly from thin air. And, as they made an early start, it was possible for the three of them to scour all the less-well-trodden paths of the Luxembourg, the Champs d'Elysees, numerous borderlands where the streets of Paris morphed into country lanes as they approached the market gardens of the outer Faubourgs, and even a few poorly-kept private gardens.

(“Do I hear no objections to trespassing?”

“Nature recognizes no boundary stones, and belongs to no man more than it does any other.”

“Et tu?”

“Even from a bourgeoisie perspective, we are doing the householders a favor in removing parasitic growths from the trees. And the injustice of enclosure–”)

Less fortunately, this small adventure reminded Bahorel of several pieces of wisdom gleaned from his parents’ hired hands. Pieces of wisdom he had long forgotten, regarding why holly should be touched only once a year, and best not by knives at all. Holly, after all, tends to cut right back. After this long and prickly day, the trio had amassed adequate greenery to festoon the walls and windowsills of the Corinthe’s backroom.

(Matelotte didn’t even blink when they walked in with their verdant burdens, multitudinous scrapes, and snagged garments. Not that one could tell with Prouvaire’s outlandish attire.)

The met in the Corinthe that Christmas Eve, for the convenience of the workers among their number. Christmas brought heavy workloads to many of their number, with even the stalwart Feuilly absent more evenings than not, under the burden of 12, 14, and even 16- hour days.

Come 8 o'clock, when even those fans ordered at the last possible moment must be completed, dried, packed, and dispatched for delivery; when brushes were cleaned and set away, paper scraps swept up, and workshops locked for the holiday; only then did Feuilly stumble up the stairs of the Corinthe, into the warm camaraderie of his friends. And one particular friend, who had saved him a seat nearest to the stove, with a glass of hot spiced wine at the ready, and a festoon of mistletoe near at hand. Grantaire was still holding forth from the corner about Rome and Saturnalia–-Combeferre attending with more than usual interest-–when Bahorel suggested that Feuilly might wish to retire for the evening. As he had been yawning with increasing frequency over the last few hours, this suggestion was acceded to.

In the cab (Bahorel insisted on splurging for the holiday and the cold; besides the driver deserved some paid fares if working on such a night), Feuilly fell asleep almost immediately, dozing on his friend’s shoulder with a tranquility only found among the thoroughly exhausted and those completely confident of their surroundings. Perhaps it was a combination of both. A generous gratuity earned the driver’s good wishes (and silence regarding the odd matter of a man in a frock coat carrying a man in a smock up to an apartment building, the second party being sound asleep).

Feuilly finally woke to the bells tolling Christmas Day–awoke in yesterday’s shirt, in a familiar bed, and to a very familiar companion.

“That is an interesting choice of decoration”, he remarked.

“I suppose holly is a bit prosaic–”

“The mistletoe. I read that the Germans believe it signifies a deep and eternal love, the sort that leads to matrimony.”

“Do they really?”

“Which, as I’ve been painting the plant for nearly two months straight, has come up in our conversation more than once."

"Indeed.”

“The Americans use it to dole out kisses. One per berry on the plant, or so I've heard.”

“Hmmm.”

“There was a large bunch of mistletoe on the table last night. And some more that mysteriously attached itself to my cap. And, unless I’m mistaken, there’s a very large cluster of mistletoe berries hanging directly over your pillow.”

“How curious.”

“That impressive equivocation is veering awfully close to lawyerly…”

“I never–!”

“Then stop it, and kiss me already.”

_Fin._


End file.
